


Words, Words, Words

by LostBlogger_JayBleu



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-25 03:58:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19737850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostBlogger_JayBleu/pseuds/LostBlogger_JayBleu
Summary: Collection of Good Omens ‘Ineffable Husbands’ one shots, headcanons, etc.





	1. Words, Words, Words

“No, no, no. Not _Hamlet_!”  


The stage was set, the seats beginning to fill, and Crowley only now glanced at the program. God, Satan, or Whatever Almighty Thing He Should Reference... he hated the tragedies. Shakespeare had some great plays, a couple fantastic sonnets, and more than a few magnificent quotes, but for hell’s sake, the tragedies just dragged on and on in misery and boredom and pointless death. He much preferred _Midsummer_ or even _Twelfth Night_. _Romeo and Juliet_? Forget it. Two teenage idiots misrepresenting love was not his definition of entertainment.  


Though it seemed to be Aziraphale’s. The angel shuffled in his seat, eyes fixed on the set. His leg bounced rapidly, making the program flutter lightly. That’s what drew Crowley’s eye to it in the first place. Now he snatched it. “Come on, Aziraphale!” he chastised, “Did you have to drag me to this? Again?”  


“Again?” he chirped. “What do you mean, again? We’ve never seen _Hamlet_ together.”  
“Maybe not, but I had to sit through weeks of it in 17th century!” Crowley whined. “I bloody well do not want to do it again...”  


Aziraphale turned back to the stage. Averting his eyes had become his default defense to prevent Crowley from seeing when he’d upset him. It was better for everyone if the demon figured Aziraphale didn’t mind his rude remarks. If he did know... well, odds were Crowley would either tease him mercilessly and make him more miserable or he would roll his eyes and ignore him - and make him more miserable.  


So he focused on the stage and refused to let tonight be sullied by Crowley’s complaining. This cast was supposed to be one of the best for Hamlet and he’d wanted to share the experience with the jackass he called his best friend, sue him.  


Crowley glanced up from the hated pamphlet and grimaced at the dimming lights. “Well, here we go...”  


Throughout the play, Crowley muttered cutting lines under his breath, insulting the actors, the story, the staging and lighting and blocking and everything else. Aziraphale kept his mouth shut and afterward convinced himself there must’ve been an inordinate amount of dust in the air to explain why his eyes watered.  


The play ended to a resounding standing ovation, with Crowley the only one in the audience still in his seat. The theater emptied slowly. Aziraphale listened longingly to couples and friends and groups discussing their favorite monologues or the talent of the actors. If only he and Crowley could have one discussion like that...  


The London night glimmered with streetlights, the streets reflecting them back into the sky. It must have rained while they were inside. As the crowds dispersed, Aziraphale and Crowley strolled down the sidewalk side by side in a surprisingly tense silence. After so many millennia together, one would think they would be comfortable enough with each other to avoid silences such as this one.  


“Well,” Crowley eventually said, “That was tedious.”  


Aziraphale snapped. “If it was so ‘tedious,’ why did you bother staying for it?!”  


Crowley blinked in surprise. Aziraphale hardly ever got this angry, especially with him. He opened his mouth to reply, but the angel beat him to it.  


“Never mind,” he hurried, “I don’t care. All I wanted was to have a nice night out with my best friend. If there had been another Shakespeare on, I would have found tickets to it - I know very well you aren’t a fan of _Hamlet_ \- but unfortunately, there wasn’t. Which you would know if you so much as bothered to ask. You’ve been nothing but rude and unkind and dare I say cruel all night. In fact, you’ve been like this for quite a while now, and I don’t appreciate it. I thought we were friends, but if spending time with me on my interests instead of yours is so ‘tedious’ then maybe we ought to rethink that.”  


“I never said-“  


“You didn’t have to.” With that, the angel marched off into the night. By the time he reached his bookstore, it had started raining again. He was thoroughly soaked by the time he got home. He could only imagine how Crowley was faring- No, he couldn’t. He had no clue how long Crowley may have stood out in the rain. It wasn’t his business and it certainly wasn’t his problem.  


The answer, though the angel might never know it, was that Crowley spent far longer in the rain than either of them realized. Aziraphale’s outburst shocked the demon so entirely that he didn’t move from his place on the sidewalk for what felt like minutes, but was more accurately hours. By the time he recovered, the rain had returned full force and had drenched him head to heel.  


He scuffled through the streets, trying to call a taxi every chance he got. Not one pulled over. He didn’t bother forcing one to. His time on the side of the street let him reflect on the past, on the time he’d been so “rude and unkind and cruel,” according to Aziraphale.  


So what, he made a few comments during the play? Aziraphale knew he hated _Hamlet_ , he even said so! Of course, he also said he would have bought tickets to something else had it been available... Still! Who said they had to go to the theater tonight? Why couldn’t they have waited a week or two? He recalled suddenly that any time he and Aziraphale had spent together in the past several months had been either chance encounters or at Aziraphale’s behest. In that case, just how “chance” were those park bench encounters?  


Well, Crowley reflected, he had been a little distant recently, but not for any bad reason. Sometimes people grew apart or needed space or whatever other bullshit humans claimed so often to salvage relationships. Then it was his bullshit too now. He hadn’t needed space. He and Aziraphale hadn’t grown apart. He’d just been a dick, a cowardly dick.  


Again, the demon froze. What exactly was he feeling right then? Guilt. Not for the first time, no, but for the first time significantly. Enough that he wondered if there was more to it that just plain old ordinary guilt.  


But what else would it be? What else could it be?  


“You alright, son?”  


Crowley whirled around. An old woman sat under a tall tree, her many layers of clothing damp and dripping. She peered up at him from beneath a ragged winter cap, her eyes surprisingly youthful for her wrinkled and leathery face.  


“Who are you?” he replied, plenty curt and plenty aware of it.  


The lady grinned, revealing chipped yellowing teeth that didn’t line up right. “Well that’s a first,” she mused, not remotely thrown off by his tone.  


“What is?”  


“Someone caring enough to ask who I am.”  


Crowley sniffed, both in disdain and at a sudden chill. “Oh. Well. Don’t worry yourself,” he mockingly assured her, “I don’t care that much.”  


Before he could walk off, she held out a hand. “Folks call me Old Lady Briggins ‘round here.”  


He quirked an eyebrow. But he shook her hand anyhow. “And you let them?”  


She shrugged and invited him to sit. “Don’t matter much to me what they call me, so long as I know it’s me they’re callin’ to.”  


Cautiously, he examined her. Nothing in particular stood out. She didn’t radiate any sort of extreme power, either good or evil. Perhaps she was a low-level demon or angel sent to... to what, exactly? Why had she called out to him? “What do you want?”  


Old Lady Briggins let out a light laugh. When I say a “light laugh” I don’t mean a faint laugh, I mean a laugh that sounded as though it contained stars and suns and electricity, I mean a laugh that in its prime would have lit up a room like lightning. “I know that look,” she replied, “Had a little lovers’ quarrel, did you?”  


“No.”  


Crowley glared at her. Was she some sort of faerie creature? How could she know about his fight with Aziraphale? Not that he’d call it a “lovers’ quarrel”... or little.  


She laughed again. “Whatever you say, son. Whatever you say... Just know that little quarrels can end up big if you aren’t careful,” she cautioned, gesturing toward him with a gnarled, wrinkled finger.  


Alright, that was the last straw! Crowley ripped off his sunglass, leaned toward her, and bared his teeth. “What are you?! An angel, a demon? Some fae monster here to turn me-?! OW!” He gaped, a hand clapped to the side of his throbbing face.  


Old Lady Briggins set her bag down next to her, apparently oblivious to the fact that the man she’d just hit with it had snake’s eyes. “I am just tryin’ to help. You looked pretty damn upset and to someone so old, someone so young shouldn’t look like that. It don’t sit well with me.” She invited him to sit again. “It ain’t a question this time,” she added. “Sit.”  


Crowley sat.  


The woman shifted to make room for him against the tree trunk. “Tell me about your person,” she requested. From this closer distance, her eyes stood out even more. Now he could see they were, in fact, not blue, as he’d originally thought, but two different colors, one blue and the other a steely grey. As she spoke more he recognized her voice matched quite soundly with her laugh and eyes; youthful, vibrant, and just odd enough to be interesting.  


“My... person?”  


She nodded. “Whoever you had that fight with, son,” she explained, “Tell me about them.”  


Crowley couldn’t believe his ears. He’d heard and seen some extremely odd things in his time, both in his 6000 years on earth and the time before that in Heaven and Hell. Over the years, he’d joined the Liechtenstein army in Italy, convinced Michelangelo to flip off the pope permanently in the Sistine Chapel (it hadn’t taken too much actual convincing, but it was fun all the same), and played poker with all of Julius Caesar’s Senate. Which had absolutely nothing to do with his murder, how could you think that? And let’s not mention the events that let to the Great Emu War...  


But none of that compared to sitting under a tree on a London street corner with a little old lady discussing his feelings for an angel.  


“What exactly do you want me to say about him?”  


“What’s he like? Why did you two fight?” Old Lady Briggins sighed and patted his knee. “Son, people don’t stand sobbin’ in the pourin’ rain cause they argued with a pal.”  


Crowley resisted the urge to shout a series of incredibly rude obscenities at her. He huffed. “I was not sobbing,” he grumbled.  


The woman patted his knee once again before straightening her shawl. She turned to him expectantly.  


Crowley growled - actually, physically growled - but he knew that he would continue to sit here with her. Damn it all, he was going soft. “His name is Aziraphale,” he began grudgingly. “He’s practically perfect - an angel, you could say. And I am... not. But we’ve been friends for... a very long time...” As he spoke, it got easier. The more he said about Aziraphale, the more he realized that he could never say enough. The angel was his best friend, yes, but he was rather an expert on falling and just as he knew he was damned, he knew he’d fallen for Aziraphale.  


He told her about his and Aziraphale’s friendship and how they had grown from strict enemies to mutually beneficial to tolerable companions to good friends. “We were never really enemies, you know? We were supposed to be, but... well, that was more for the ‘higher ups’ than it was for us,” he admitted.  


“That seems to be how it goes,” she agreed. It was one of the few times she spoke while he talked. He would never admit it, but it was rather nice to have someone listen to him without interrupting. It wasn’t that Aziraphale interrupted him, per se, but it was nice to have the undivided, slightly unconcerned attention of someone else.  


Crowley lounged back, staring aimlessly out at the thundering rain. “And now...” He sighed. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. I think I’ve officially fucked things up.”  


“Why do you say that, son?”  


“The fight. I believe the words he used were ‘rude and unkind and cruel.’” Crowley pulled his legs to his chest and replaced his sunglasses. “And honestly? He might be right.”  


“How come?”  


Crowley tilted his head. “Did you hear anything I told you?”  


She smiled to pacify him. “Of course, son. And I heard that you’re really, truly sorry for all of it.”  


Crowley hated that she was right. Demons were not supposed to feel guilty for any reason. Especially not him. He wasn’t supposed to be sorry or apologetic, and certainly not because he upset an angel. Hell, he wasn’t even supposed to like Aziraphale - in any capacity. Yet here he was, and he felt guilt and sorry and he more than liked Aziraphale.  


He blinked, though she couldn’t see it. “I suppose you’re right.”  


With a rustle of her clothes and a cascade of small droplets, Old Lady Briggins suddenly stood. She shook out her top layer and wrung out her hood. Around them, the rain had stopped. “Then I suppose you better let that angel know, shouldn’t you?” She offered her hand once more and pulled Crowley to his feet. She patted his cheek. “Don’t give up on yourself so easy, son.”  


The woman turned on her heel and shuffled off into the London fog, leaving behind her a shell-shocked demon without a clue how one handles a so-called apology.  


Even after so many years, Crowley still didn’t understand humans. Angels and demons were one thing, and extremely predictable for it. But humans? They were something else entirely, a myriad of chaos and choices and bizarre. They were walking contradictions, living paradoxes. In short, they just didn’t make sense. There were so many of them and yet not one was quite like any other.  


He had never encountered someone like this Old Lady Briggins, not once in 6000 years had a raggedy woman invited him to sit and talk - not once. He supposed humans would always pose that sort of odd dilemma, certainly they would always face it, anyway.  


For a demon who’s world was always colored black and white for evil and good, the blurred lines and gray areas of humanity were strange and unnerving. But he and Aziraphale had been inhabiting those gray areas for 6000 years and if he’d learned nothing, then he was doomed more than he realized. After all, if the lines were already blurred, was there any real harm in crossing them every so often?  


Demons weren’t supposed to apologize, but then again, they weren’t supposed to love angels either. But sometimes, the rules have to be broken - and isn’t that exactly what demons were supposed to do?  


Crowley hurried back to his stark, clean home and dialed the number of an old friend. “I need to cash in on that favor, pal.”  


The next morning, the clouds had cleared - for the most part. He knew Aziraphale was probably still upset, so he spent the day alone, letting the angel work and cool off. He also had a favor to collect. Just before the bookstore closed, Crowley arrived. He walked in as a customer, avoiding Aziraphale’s notice until everyone else had left.  


“Evening,” he called, finally drawing his attention.  


“What-? Crowley!” As he expected, Aziraphale immediately grew upset. “What on earth are you doing here?” he demanded.  


With a long exhale and a would-be nonchalance that probably came off better than he hoped, he muttered, “I’m here because... of yesterday.”  


“Well,” Aziraphale replied gruffly, his tone already ramble-y, “I figured- I mean, I did think- didn’t think-“  


“I’m here,” Crowley continued, “To apologize.”  


Aziraphale’s flushing face suddenly paled. He felt his own blood rush from his cheeks. “To- what?!” he spluttered a hundred other exclamations before Crowley managed to get the next words out.  


“You were right.”  


Azirphale was shocked into silence. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d heard Crowley say those words - or if he even had.  


“I was everything you said... rude and unkind and cruel. I don’t think that’s going to stop entirely,” he added, “I can’t be caught going ‘soft’, you know, but I am... sorry. We are friends, and I shouldn’t have been any of those things to you.”  


He held out an envelope. Aghast, Aziraphale snatched it from him. What in Heaven, Earth, or Hell was Crowley playing at?! He was never this... emotional. Never. Not once. Not one in 6000 years had he been this open about himself.  


Inside the envelope were tickets. Tickets to plays, to musicals. “On Broadway?!” He gaped at the slips of paper, his eyes switching between Crowley and the tickets. “Are you serious?”  


“Completely,” the demon replied, smiling the smile he believed came across false and tight. Aziraphale saw right through him. “Got ‘em from a friend. When I say ‘friend’...”  


“These are... These are _fantastic_!” he exclaimed. The seats were incredible and the selection was magnificent! Some were classics, some of his favorite shows among them, but some were newer works, things he’d heard about vaguely more in the abstract than in reality. He threw his arms around Crowley before he could think too much about it and stop himself. “Thank you so much!”  


He let go and turned back to gushing over the tickets, not noticing that Crowley had frozen completely. For once, the demon blushed. Not a lot, but just enough.  


“Truly, Crowley, thank you so much for this.”  


Crowley sniffed, jolting himself out of his stupor (keep it together). “Don’t mention it, really.” Aziraphale jumped into planning when he would head to New York and rambled about which shows he was most excited for. As much as Crowley enjoyed listening to him talk, though he would never admit it, he had to interrupt at one point. “Aziraphale?”  


“Yes?”  


“I’m well aware our last venture to the theater ended in disaster, but... well, what do you say we give it another shot?” He held up a second envelope. Aziraphale’s eyes lit up and he rushed to agree.  


“I simply cannot wait, my dear.”  


“Neither can I, angel.”


	2. The Realization - With A Capital “R”

Oftentimes, Realizations surprise their realizers. No one expects a Realization. That’s what makes them Realizations and not Ideas or Solutions.  


Aziraphale didn’t realized he was in love with Crowley until he did. Unsurprisingly, it took him by surprise. He wasn’t sure why he was surprised. After spending six thousand years and a near Apocalypse with someone, how could one not fall in love? Maybe he was surprised because he, an angel, had fallen in love with Crowley, a demon, specifically. But who else could he possibly love? Certainly none of Heaven’s stuffy, egotistical, neurotic puppets, and even more certainly none of the cruel and vicious executioners in Hell. There was only Crowley, the most angelic demon he’d ever encountered, the most human inhuman creature in the world - and him, the demonic angel, the always-in-trouble kind of angel.  


He sat and mused about in his bookshop, with only paper and prose as witnesses to his Realization.  


The issue this Realization posed, he realized, was what to do next? He could tell Crowley how he felt, and hope that, eventually, the demon would come around. He could sit back and see where this went, but he’d pretty much been ‘sitting back and seeing’ for thousands of years - he knew nothing would likely change anytime soon. There was also the chance Crowley could feel the same way about him, but that would require encountering Crowley and holding a serious conversation about this with him. And Heaven knew that was near to impossible - not for Crowley. For him!  


But maybe there was another option, a less decisive decision...  


Since the Almost-Apocalypse, he and Crowley had been spending quite a lot more time together - which also could have led to the Realization. Asking the demon to lunch wouldn’t seem out of the ordinary. It would help him determine just how deep his feelings for Crowley ran and whether or not he could even begin to breach the subject.  


Dialing Crowley’s number was almost muscle memory after so long, the demon’s greeting routine and expected.  


“Hello, angel.”  


That was about when everything went, as they say, to Hell.  


Crowley spoke and all of a sudden, Aziraphale couldn’t remember how to force his vocal sounds into coherent words.  


“Aziraphale?” Silence. Across London, Crowley dropped his feet from his desk and perched cautiously on his seat. His mind raced with a thousand and one ideas, all bad, worse, and worst. If something happened- Had Anything or Anyone returned?  


Since Aziraphale’s bookshop had burned down and they’d saved the world and gotten thrown out of Heaven and Hell respectively (what a day), he’d resolved never to miss a call from the angel again. And he’d certainly determined that if anything ever seemed wrong, he would be right at Aziraphale’s side to fight off Heaven, Hell, or both - no matter the cost.  


“YES!” The angel’s voice burst through the speaker in a frantic shout. (Crowley jumped - and never once admitted it.) He cleared his throat carefully and fought to control his tone. “Yes. I’m here. Sorry.”  


“Uh huh.”  


Aziraphale coughed again. “I was wondering if you were interested in going to lunch later,” he managed, though only after too many failed attempts and restarts to count.  


“Well, why not,” Crowley replied, his worry abating. They talked for another few minutes, setting a plan and the like, before hanging up. Try as he might, Crowley couldn’t fight a small smile from spreading across his lips. Even after so long, Crowley still felt a rush of butterflies and fireworks whenever he thought of Aziraphale. Six thousand years was an awful long time to be in unrequited love - it still felt like the first day he fell for Aziraphale. It wasn’t an ideal situation, a demon falling for an angel on earth, but it was The Situation.  


He shook himself out of his thoughts. Lunch would be nice, and he’d take what he could get.  


Aziraphale met up with Crowley at a small vegetarian restaurant they both (Crowley somewhat grudgingly) enjoyed. A local couple managed it and spent their days cooking meals for their very loyal patrons. One of the owners greeted them with a bright smile and a familiar hug. “The usual table?” Hannah offered.  


“Of course,” Aziraphale replied, matching her friendly smile. He didn’t even need a miracle to ensure the table would be unoccupied.  


Their usual table sat quietly and unassuming in the corner of the front dining room, one side lit by wide windows and the other shaded by the wall and hanging plants. Naturally, Aziraphale preferred the brightened seat while Crowley enjoyed the darker side of things. They sat and ate and talked for hours on end, as usual, about any topic under the sun.  


“You’re absolutely wrong,” Crowley deadpanned, knocking back the rest of his drink. “There is no way to make _Love’s Labors Lost_ better.”  


Aziraphale pointedly sipped his lemonade and said, “Two words: period clothing.” _Love’s Labors Lost_ was one of Crowley’s favorite Shakespeare plays. Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure why, as there were funnier comedies and more tragic dramas to enjoy, but he enjoyed it and Aziraphale would never be one to suggest a disinterest in literature, especially Shakespeare.  


Crowley narrowed his eyes behind his sunglasses and eyed the angel carefully. “Alright,” he conceded, “I could get behind that.”  


Aziraphale watched him. There was that Realization again. That little, pesky, huge, life-changing, fantastic Realization that he was an angel hopelessly in love with a demon.  


Something just had to be done about this.  


“Aziraphale. Aziraphale!”  


The angel jolted, not aware how long he’d been preoccupied with his thoughts. “Sorry? Yes?”  


“What-?” Crowley began, confused and unsure exactly how the sentence was going to end.  


“Crowley,” the angel interrupted sharply, shocking both himself and the demon. “Crowley, my dear?”  


Crowley’s yellow eyes searched Aziraphale’s face for something he couldn’t quite name. “Yes?”  


“I think I’d rather like to kiss you.” Aziraphale almost regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. This was the risky move, the All In - the payoff could be fantastic, or he could lose everything.  


But Crowley smiled. Actually smiled. Not a smirk or a sneer or a snarl or any of the hundred other half-smiles and fake grins he displayed for the rest of the world. He really, truly smiled. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he replied, leaning just barely forward.  


Aziraphale didn’t waste a moment. He surged forward and his lips met Crowley’s in a simple kiss. There was a mutual love between them in the kiss, a true love. Not the capital “T”, “L” True Love trumped up in fairytales and stories - in Aziraphale’s opinion love only came once one knew another’s deepest, truest self - but a truly honest and real love that connects two beings who know each other better than they know themselves.  


Crowley smiled, resting his forehead against his angel’s. “Took you long enough.”  


“I’m afraid it took me rather long to Realize what I was feeling, my dear.”  


“I’ll say.” The demon closed his serpentine eyes and kissed the angel again. Oddly enough, nothing in the world seemed to make more sense.


End file.
